Need You Now
by secretxpleasures
Summary: Draco seemed off put by her bluntness, but the brief flicker of shock upon his face was just that, brief, fleeting. Both were here for the same reason. Comfort.


_Disclaimer: Let's make it easy; I own nothing._

_Author's Note: This sad little story came to me as I was driving around the other day, listening to some wonderful American country radio. Lady Antebellum's "Need You Now" began playing and it was impossible to ignore the nagging feeling that a wonderful one-shot HP fic could be written based off of the lyrics. Therefore, I also do not own the words of the letters that Hermione and Draco send to each other; they are the lyrics of said song... with minor alterations to make it more Wizarding world compliant._

_Rating: Strong M_

**Need You Now**

_Picture perfect memories scattered all around the floor  
Reaching for this parchment because I can't fight it anymore…_

Hermione stared at those words she had just scrawled across the parchment in front of her. She sat in the small family room of her one-room apartment, surrounded by moving photographs of her best friends. Harry, Ron, even Ginny, laughing in every photo. Those were better times.

It had been over a year since Voldemort's terror on Wizardkind had ended and yet, Hermione still suffered from the nightmares. They weren't the same nightmares that the others had; she didn't see the visions of Voldemort returning, flashes of light crossing the sky as friends – and foes – fell to the ground around her feet. Hermione now suffered much more intrusive, self-inflicted nightmares.

Following the demise of Voldemort, Hermione was able to hope and that hope was reserved for only one thing – one man. A redhead who's heart she'd ached and pined for nearly all seven years of her time at Hogwarts with him. Ron Weasley. Ron Weasley and those soft lips with which he'd kissed her so passionately preceding the final battle. Those lips had promised her so much should they both make it through alive. Which, surprisingly, they did.

The weeks following the battle brought sadness, as those who survived mourned those who did not. The months following brought night terrors and uneasiness to those who could not trust their friends and neighbors. But, slowly, the Wizarding World, like all things and people who have seen great tragedy, began to recover its shattered pieces. Shops reopened and families reunited, and yet, the Trio still suffered the shock and terror of that night. Harry and Ron were most affected of all, and no one could find fault in either of them for shutting themselves away from the world a while longer. And so, Hermione waited. She was never one for impatience or insensitivity, and badgering Ron so soon about the trivial lip lock seemed inconsiderate.

While Hermione's nightmares slowly ebbed away, she became increasingly more expectant of Ron to pursue his promises. One month passed. Two, three. Hermione began to lose faith in her hope. When nearly four months had passed since the battle, and even Harry seemed to have been taking great steps to reenter the social world, Hermione fitted herself one night with her most courageous face and determinedly made her way to Ron's room in the very top of the Burrow.

What followed would normally have passed as a typical row between the temperamental redhead and the easily offended brunette. After Hermione had broached the seemingly taboo subject, Ron had reproached her for speaking of such "insignificant issues" at such a "delicate" time in his life. Though Hermione sensed his melodramatic words were not intended to hurt her, she felt their sting all the same. His disregard of her feelings for him burned the threads of her hearts and caused her to choke on unshed tears. Soon, the entire Weasley family was forced to act oblivious to the vicious words that were being thrown between the teens in the upstairs room. When it seemed that the argument, this obvious battle to see who could hurt the other more deeply, would not end, Harry stepped in at Ginny's urging.

"Hey!" He called for attention from the two, both of whom whipped around to face the intruder of their verbal war. Before Harry could find the words to say to his best friends to calm their angers, Hermione abruptly walked towards the door.

"It's okay, Harry, this conversation is so _over_," she stated, her words dripping with malice as her eyes shot the proverbial daggers at Ron over Harry's head.

Ron narrowed his eyes in response.

"_Perfect_," he whispered as Hermione turned heel and hurried down the stairs, slamming the door to Ginny's room behind her. She refused to be witness to whatever moronic explanations Ron would give Harry about the fight.

Eventually, Hermione's anger receded and was replaced, as anger usually is, by a deep sadness. The words that Ron had said to her would never be completely forgotten; she could feel them sink in her stomach and when rethinking them more carefully, felt each one rise like bile in her throat. But Hermione refused to allow Ron to play victim in front of her, and therefore resolved to leave the Burrow the following morning. She couldn't go home to her parents; they had taken a year off to backpack across all of Europe. _Honestly_, she remembered saying to them, _what sort of dentists go backpacking across Europe?_ But they left, regardless.

Hermione knew she had a Gringotts vault full of money they had left for her in case of emergency. She almost felt sorry to use the money in such a situation, but to be frank _this_ was an emergency. She needed to be as far away from Ron Weasley as she could reasonably get. She would rent a room above The Three Broomsticks the very next day, until she could find a more permanent living arrangement… and some form of employment.

The following morning Hermione woke early, knowing full well that Ron would never see the light of day before eleven o'clock. She Accio'd what was hers into a small, tattered suitcase and made her way towards the kitchen where she could hear Mrs. Weasley bustling about as Ginny pleaded with her to talk sense into Ron. Hermione debated slipping out the front door and apparating away without a word, or being honest with the Weasley women. And Hermione was nothing, if not honest. She cleared her throat, an act she'd acquired to attain hidden bravery in her many years at Hogwarts, and entered the kitchen. Both Ginny and Mrs. Weasley ceased all conversation and smiled politely at Hermione before noticing the suitcase floating behind her.

"Hermione," Mrs. Weasley attempted a light chuckle, hoping to make light of the previous night's argument, "please tell me that after all this time, Ronald's horrible temper hasn't made you feel uncomfortable?" Hermione almost rethought her decision at the nervous pitch to Mrs. Weasley's voice. She looked into the face of the woman who was like a second mother to her, and realized that she never _would_ be like an actual mother, or more precisely a mother-in-law. She would never have the heart of Mrs. Weasley's son; she would be only a hanger-on to the family, quite like a sad little pet.

"I'm sorry," Hermione looked from Ginny to her mother and continued, "it's not Ron's temper. I know his temper all too well. It just was… well, is… a complete mess that I've made. I blame myself more than I do Ron."

For what felt like an hour, Ginny and Mrs. Weasley protested Hermione's decision to leave the Burrow, but seemed to know deep inside that when Hermione Granger made up her mind, there was no stopping her. Finally, with tearful hugs they let her leave, hoping she would return to them when life set itself right.

* * *

Days later found Hermione still at The Three Broomsticks. The logical side of her brain told her day in and day out that she needed to find a job immediately. That her savings would amount to nothing if she blew it all on a cheap room above the pub and several drinks in it every night. But Hermione couldn't manage to crawl out of bed in the mornings to attempt job-hunting. She couldn't manage to fight the need to slink down to the pub every night for "just one drink." One drink always led to one too many. Every night Madam Rosmerta helped a dizzy Hermione to her room, but never said anything the following night. She, like many others at The Three Broomsticks, seemed all too familiar with a young witch or wizard drowning his or her post-war feelings in a few bottles of Firewhiskey. It didn't matter to Hermione that they assumed her drinking was related to the final battle; she actually quite preferred that analysis to reality: a stupid, broken heart.

It was during her eighth night there that Hermione spotted a familiar face entering the pub. Through Firewhiskey vision, his platinum hair and clear, blue eyes were more attractive to Hermione than intimidating. She watched as Malfoy scanned the bar and noticed her immediately. She saw with grim frustration, the smirk that appeared as he made his way to her.

"Granger, aren't you looking…" his eyes grazed her appearance. She hiccupped audibly, "… thoroughly snockered?" Hermione snorted in response.

Draco summoned Madam Rosmerta, "I'll have what she's having."

"An entire bottle of Firewhiskey?"

Draco looked at her and nodded. He returned his gaze to Hermione. The bookworm he had left behind at Hogwarts seemed long gone. Though he could likely be the poster boy for "change of character after leaving school," he thought Hermione looked more than just different. She looked downright miserable, and terribly lonely. He could understand the feeling, just as well as he understood the nightly drinking. His verified innocence when the war had ended only succeeded in ostracizing him from his already wretched family; he had gained no benefits from the Wizarding world. With his father banished to Azkaban, and his mother's refusal to speak to him, Draco found himself on his own in a very unforgiving world.

"You've got some sorrows to drown in that glass, as well?" Hermione spoke without the slur he had expected.

"And you think I've come here to tell you all about my pitiful affairs, do you?" Draco shot back. His detachment from the "Dark Side" hardly made him friend to the bushy-haired know-it-all that he had so come to loathe in his time at Hogwarts. Hermione turned her eyes back to the glass in front of her. The two former students sat beside each other, silently drowning away inner demons.

It was near closing time, and countless drinks later that a tipsy Draco Malfoy sat in a booth across from an extremely tipsy Hermione Granger, and listened with surprising patience as she prattled on about her pathetic broken heart. He was just about to impolitely excuse himself from the dreadful conversation when she said something that caused him to stay.

"Come to my room tonight. I need to fuck," Hermione was certain it was the alcohol; for she could swear she had never used such a word in her life. She was determined not to take it back, however; as it seemed to quite effectively capture the attention of the unfortunately handsome asshole across from her. Though Draco's snide face would never betray his genuine feelings, he followed Hermione to her room upstairs.

"I can't believe you actually had a _crush_, I'm sorry, you were _in love_, with Weasle all those years in school," Draco snorted while watching Hermione move around the room. She looked into his icy blue eyes and saw just that, ice. No warmth. No affection. And his finding her crushing ordeal with Ron so absolutely hilarious reminded her that she was dealing with the same Draco Malfoy whom she was convinced, only months before, was a member of the Dark Lord's sadistic army. Hermione nearly turned her back and fled the room before reminding herself that she had nowhere – and no one – to run to. Instead, she chose her words wisely in the hopes she could cause him to temporarily ease off the hurtful remarks that she so desperately did not need to hear.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy. Did you come to this room to have a chat? I was under the impression that we were here for something entirely different. Something that requires no words."

Rather than look chagrined, Malfoy smirked. "Oh yes, and what would that be?"

Hermione knew that Malfoy expected her to skirt around the subject. She chose not to take his bait, and instead replied, "uninhibited, vulgar, emotionless fucking. A physical release from the bullshit I've dealt with."

Draco seemed off put by her bluntness, but the brief flicker of shock upon his face was just that, brief, fleeting. In mere seconds, the smug look reappeared upon his face, and he chose, quite intelligently, to take action rather than use another set of bothersome words. Both were here for the same reason. Comfort. Comfort in the form of a shameless shag between bitter rivals.

He stood and crushed his lips to Hermione's while spinning her towards the bed. She squeaked at the surprise of his kiss; she hadn't expected him to make a move so quickly. She was dimly aware of the force of his lips, now at her neck. Surely, she would bruise in the morning, but she couldn't deny the passion. She was sure it was pent up frustration and anger, but it felt good all the same.

They stood at the end of the bed, forcefully and shamelessly pulling off shirts and pants. Hermione's logical mind, lost somewhere behind the pint of Firewhiskey, attempted to remind her of just who she was undressing. She ignored it, pulling Malfoy onto the bed on top of her.

He moved from her neck to her lips, briefly. As his hands traveled across the flat plane of her stomach, he pulled away from the kiss to look into her eyes. She stared into dark orbs, which reflected lust and need.

"I'm not going to be nice," he whispered. She nodded her head, as though she had expected this is how it would be. She could handle it. She was not a delicate blossom, and she was not the virgin that most would imagine her to be. She had allowed Viktor to take that from her many years ago.

Draco immediately lowered his head to one of her aroused nipples. He first tongued it tentatively before nipping at it quite painfully. Surprisingly, Hermione was only more excited by this. She moaned quietly, beginning to entirely lose herself in the moment. Draco's hand moved slowly to her increasingly wet nether regions. He inserted one, then two long fingers into the warm folds and marveled at how tight the girl beneath him was. Hermione all but growled in his ear as his fingers magically found the spot with which he could drive her insane. After several minutes of pumping his hand in a number of satisfying motions, Hermione could feel a familiar, yet long lost tightening in her stomach. It had been years since Viktor, and Hermione's sense of decorum had never allowed for masturbation.

"_Now_," Hermione ordered Draco. Though he would have loved to continue to tease the infuriating witch, if only to irk her, he was painfully aware of his own throbbing erection. Immediately, he removed his fingers and thrust his cock into Hermione's aching center without warning. She nearly screamed as pain momentarily flooded her insides due to Malfoy's thoughtlessness. If it were not for the very fact that only seconds later he began to move in and out in a most pleasing way, she would have found some method of kneeing him in the very balls he was using to satisfy her.

As it was, thoughts of causing pain to Malfoy's cock were quickly ebbing away as Hermione began to match his rhythm, thrusting upwards, causing him to grunt in satisfaction. They continued with the same pace, only increasing it when Hermione began moaning louder. She was soon beginning to see tiny black dots in the corners of her eyes, as the tightening in her stomach began to quiver. She could sense from Malfoy's frenzied breathing that he was undeniably close to the edge as well. He looked her in the eyes again.

"Come for me," he demanded. This was all it took as the walls inside her began to fall. It was as though a dam had burst, all of the hurt and anger flooded from her and left in their wake, satisfaction and a buzzing from head to toe. Hermione was still shaking as Malfoy followed in a sweet, sweet release.

* * *

The following morning Hermione awoke, quite unsurprisingly, alone. Draco had no doubt meandered off into the night as soon as she had fallen asleep. This caused an unsolicited twinge of anguish before she shook the feeling away and found the motivation to leave the room in search of a job. Though Hermione knew she was more than qualified for nearly any job to which she would apply, she also knew that obtaining one would not be an immediate process, and funds were getting low.

As the next week progressed, Hermione applied for several jobs at the Ministry and while waiting to hear back, continued to stay at The Three Broomsticks. She continued to frequent the pub every night, and surprisingly ended up taking Draco, who also returned to the pub every night, to her room on every occasion. As the nights developed, Hermione would imagine during their very uninhibited sex that each time Draco seemed to become a little softer with his touch, a little more affectionate in his kisses. But every morning, when Hermione again awoke alone, those feelings would all be dashed.

At the end of the week, Hermione was in possession of a job at the Ministry in the very bleak field of Finances. She immediately rented an apartment above one of the shops in Diagon Alley, not far from The Three Broomsticks. Convenient for someone who had taken to drinking and shagging her nights away. She confided as much in Draco, who seemed unperturbed by her change in residence.

Both understood that their risqué nights together would eventually end, but neither seemed willing to let go of the comfort just yet. For nearly a month longer, Hermione continued this very unhealthy relationship with Malfoy. But as Hermione spent more time reclaiming a social life at work, she began to feel a sense of guilt coming over her. It increased tenfold when she received an owl from Harry pleading that she have some sort of contact with him; it had been over five weeks since she had left the Burrow and had bothered to get in touch with no one at the house during her hiatus. Hermione agreed to meet with Harry for lunch the following day.

It was after this meeting that Hermione realized what she must do. Although Harry seemed adamant that Ron was not yet ready to make amends, Hermione knew that she at least must move on. She promised to keep in touch with Harry. That night, she did not go to the pub. She did not contemplate what Draco would think when he didn't find her there. She did not expect him to come find her, though he knew where she lived; they shagged there every night. He would know that it was over.

And so it was over, for seven months to this very night. For those seven months, Hermione had worked tirelessly, gaining promotion after promotion in the field she had grown to quite enjoy. She spent countless afternoons with Harry and Ginny, who were now a very public couple. She occasionally ran into Mr. Weasley at the Ministry; they chatted amicably. A few times she went for lunch with George and Percy. But never Ron. Never did she see him, or speak with him. And as every day would end without another word from him, Hermione would begin to think of Malfoy; she would think of the month of nights they'd had. She would think of his touch. Every night, she would remember his touch. She came to regard these as nightmares, horrible visions of something unreal that assaulted her each night. She would awake in a cold sweat, each time alone in her room.

Occasionally Hermione would get the courage to ask Harry how Ron was doing. The conversation always went the same.

"He's fine," Harry would say.

"Oh. Tell him I say hello," she would reply. Harry would nod his head, and the subject would change. It was today, however; that Hermione had added to the conversation.

As Harry sat staring into Diagon Alley from the small table he and Hermione shared at the ice-cream parlor, Hermione asked him one small question.

"Can you please ask him to come by my apartment tonight?"

"I can," he'd replied.

And so, she'd sat in this very spot and waited for him. Around eleven o'clock that night she had heard a pop in her kitchen, and had watched as Ron strolled around the corner into her small family room. She was sitting in the middle of the floor, and when she looked up she could hardly breathe. He looked just the same: tall, freckled, redheaded. Her heart fluttered and she almost regretted asking for him to come. She had an awful sense of foreboding.

"How did you know where to apparate to?" She asked quietly. He couldn't quite seem to meet her eyes.

"Harry gave me the location; showed me a picture you two had taken in the kitchen," he replied.

"Oh," she stated lamely. She watched as Ron came closer and then sat down on the floor in front of her. She could feel tears behind her eyes at the realization that they were seeing each other for the first time in over eight months. It was pathetic, absurd. What kind of best friends did this to each other?

"Hermione, I love you. But I don't love you the way that you love me; the way I thought I could love you. I love you because you're my best friend," Ron finally looked into her brown eyes. "I didn't want to lose you as a friend, but I couldn't give you what you wanted. I still can't. I'm not sure I could give that to anyone anymore."

Hermione had sensed this would come. She had lost that hope she once had a long time ago, and had not been able to find it since. But the words hurt just as badly as if she hadn't seen it coming. She was not irrational, though. Some warped part of her brain understood that Ron would never be hers. Through thick tears, she nodded her head and allowed Ron to envelope her in a tight hug for only a few moments.

"But I can't be _just_ your friend anymore, Ron," she said as she pulled away. "Not now, maybe not ever. But just… not now."

Ron looked hurt, ashamed to be the one causing her so much pain, and yet he couldn't, wouldn't take back his confession. He simply nodded his head, sadly. He stood and began to walk away from the mess he had made.

"So, I'll see you when I see you, then?" He asked her.

"I'll be in touch," Hermione replied, her voice cracking painfully, knowing that she would not. She watched as Ron lingered for a moment, and then apparated from her apartment with a deafening crack. And then silence. She was alone, and so, she cried.

It was still here that she sat, much past midnight, now surrounded by the moving photographs. She remembered when each had been taken; remembered the feelings she'd had at each particular moment. It was these beautiful photographs that she watched her tears crash upon now. The photographs, and the piece of parchment upon which she'd began writing these words:

_Picture perfect memories scattered all around the floor,  
reaching for this parchment because I can't fight it anymore.  
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind,  
for me it happens all the time._

Hermione felt stupid, there was no better word for this. She was right back where she had been seven months ago. She was heartbroken by the same man she had been heartbroken by back then, however; she now also felt a void that another man had filled only temporarily. She didn't know what she felt for Draco; the feelings were likely not real. But she needed something. She looked back at the parchment and continued writing._  
_  
_It's a quarter after one, I'm all-alone and I need you now.  
I said I wouldn't call but I lost all control and I need you now.  
And I don't know how I can do without;  
I just need you now._

She pulled away from the parchment, staring at it with stinging eyes. She absently fingered a pendant around her neck, given to her by her parents so many moons ago, while she contemplated what she would do next.

At the same moment, Draco sat at The Three Broomsticks, nursing a large glass of Firewhiskey. It had been seven months since he had been last sitting in this seat. After the night that Hermione did not show, he knew the dysfunctional relationship they'd had was over. The relationship that he somehow could never quite walk away from was finally, blessedly over. He did not return to the pub again. Not until tonight. When for unknown reasons, the thoughts he had of Hermione every night were suddenly stronger than they had been. Throwing every ounce of pride he had under the carpet, he entered the pub, half-expecting to see her sitting there. She was not.

Hours later, much past midnight and near closing time, Draco still had seen no sign of Hermione. He asked Madam Rosmerta for a piece of parchment. He sensed desperation in his voice, but ignored it. It was simply the Firewhiskey speaking. Draco knew that he could apparate to Hermione's door and likely find her inside the apartment. But he couldn't summon the courage, though he did not admit this to himself. He began to write.

_Another shot of Firewhiskey, can't stop looking at the door,  
wishing you'd come sweeping in the way you did before.  
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind,  
for me it happens all the time_.

Rather than face whatever sick emotions it was that he was feeling, Draco continued on without rereading what he'd written.

_It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now.  
I said I wouldn't call but I lost all control and I need you now.  
And I don't know how I can do without;  
I just need you now._

He scrawled his name at the bottom with no embellishments and quickly walked to the back corner of the room, where one of the residential owls seemed ready and willing to accept the letter. Draco tied it to his foot and sent the letter off without giving himself an opportunity to think of what he'd done.

Hermione sat, still fingering the pendant, on the floor of her apartment. Suddenly she scrawled one last line at the bottom of the parchment.

_Guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all._

She didn't even bother to sign her name, as she rolled up the parchment and attached it to the foot of her owl, sending him on his way. Just as she was about to close the window, she noticed an unfamiliar owl swooping towards her.

As soon as she had pried the letter from his foot, the owl had left, and Hermione had hastily unrolled the parchment. She quickly read through the note, and without a second thought apparated outside The Three Broomsticks. She knew he would be there.

As she pushed her way through the front entrance, she could feel her heartbeat speed up as she scanned the room, expecting to single him out immediately. But slowly, she realized he was not there. She didn't know what she was feeling, disappointment or remorse for sending the letter. But as she walked to the front door to apparate back to her apartment, she felt the tears begin to fall again.

Draco was waiting outside her apartment door. He had knocked several times and she had yet to open it. He hadn't wanted to apparate inside, as it felt somehow inappropriate. Now, some strange insecurity began to surface. This was something Draco had never felt. But had the letter even been from her? He could think of no other that would possibly send it, and yet, it had been left unsigned. Just as he turned to apparate, the door behind him swung open. He looked back to see a sobbing, wretched Hermione standing there.

"I went to The Three Broomsticks when I got your letter," she began.

"I was there," he said simply.

They looked at each other. Her warm brown eyes implored his body to move forward. He took a giant step towards her and crushed his lips against hers, much like their first kiss, though somehow softer, sweeter. Neither one knew what they were feeling at that moment. And if either did know, they would never admit to it.

Hermione knew that this was not Ron, this would never be. The man so desperately kissing her at this moment would never be tall, freckled, redheaded. He would never have a place in her heart. Hermione reasoned, however; that on nights like this one, Draco temporarily filled a vacancy, a deep void somewhere inside her. He let her forget for hours in the dark of night that she was missing what she most craved, love.

Draco, through no design of his own would admit, only during these moments, that some part of him needed this woman. Some deep, twisted part of himself would come to her time and again to temporarily fill the holes inside his battered heart and to ease the insecurities he felt when he thought of what he no longer had in this world, belonging.

Together they would never have a real sense of comfort, only an artificial one conjured between the sheets. Together they would not have it all, but they would have something.

And tonight, tonight they desperately needed something.


End file.
